Streaks of yellow, orange and red shimmer in the sunlight, ricocheting off the pools of slow-moving water. Her hand reaches down, attempting to grasp at their wiggling fins. The California afternoon sun, muted by thick stocked bamboo allows for a cooling breeze to envelop us. Giggling, she leans over the wooden railings, her blonde wig falling slightly off kilter. Her jewelry, a riot of diamonds and lapis rings, and red costume jewelry necklaces, all jingle. Despite it being summer, a red turtleneck rests snug against her skin.
The colors of the koi seem to spark the opening of a memory file, she bolts up from the wooden bench, and in a loud and lyrical voice, sings: “God Bless America, land that I love.”
Grandma! I think, Please, not here! I look around the serene Japanese gardens. I don’t see anyone. Whew. She’ll stop in a second or two.
But instead, she swings her arms, while raising her voice to a higher octave, singing, “to the mountains, to the oceans, white with foam…” Her arms raise straight up into the air, hands grasping at the clouds or perhaps whomever reaches down.
I imagine the entire meditative gardens can hear her. She wraps up her garden serenade just as a gardener comes around the stone path. She gives him one of her wide, innocent grins and to my surprise, he smiles back and strolls down the path without a reprimand.
She sees this as a sign of encouragement and breaks into round two, “Stand beside her and guide her…”
I decide to let her rip. It has been a rough twenty-four hours for both of us. Only yesterday she knelt beside the bed of her beloved of sixty years and said good-bye. Although the memory of this morning’s breakfast has fallen into an abyss, she amazingly knows he is “with the angels now.”
Author: Michelle Pahl
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